Walking Dead 1. 10-12

**A/N- **I have no clue where this idea originally stemmed from, maybe it was just a crazy dream, but whatever.

**Plot-** Rick comes from a terrible family but Daryl knows how that goes. AU Rick/Daryl

**Disclaimer-** I do not own The Walking Dead, only the occasional OC that may or may not show up.

**Warnings-** adult themes, coarse language, violence, possible character death, alcohol/drug use, Merle (Racism, sexism), domestic and child abuse of all natures, maleXmale, etc.

**Parings-** Rick/Daryl, Mild Andrea/Michonne

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"What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you."  
_Jean Cocteau_

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**Second-Class Citizens-**

It was always loudest on Thursday nights. Rick wasn't quite sure why, but he had long ago learned to stay clear.

His mother's anger was endless when she was shooting up, and even through locked doors Rick could hear her gargled screeching. It was incomprehensible, but the message never failed to get through. Rick knew that when she was intoxicated all she wanted was to hurt and punish and break everyone around her down to her level. It was painful, not just hearing her violence, but watching her eyes glaze over with drugs and disgust.

Rick's step-father would laugh when his wife stumbled drunkenly out of the bathroom, rubber still tied tight around her upper arm, lips pulled up in a deranged snarl. He would watch her make a fool of herself, and sometimes, when Rick was in the room, he would make it worse. His chuckles were deep and careless and slow, always in a low rhythm and unforgettable.

It was always a mystery why they got together in the first place. All they ever did was fight and hate and it would only get worse with their drugs and their booze. They despised each other on cellular level. They would beat each other down verbally and then physically and then emotionally until they were both miserable and brimming with hate and only hate. They were each other's cancer.

Once in a blue moon, though, when they were both sober and they had recuperated from long nights of loathing, Rick would catch them looking at each other like they could see all of the wonders of the world. There had always been love between them, somewhere, lingering deep, and it was a beautiful love, but Rick had trouble seeing it most of the time. He could tell they had trouble too.

Shane was confused with the universe, his eyes were always narrowed and sad when he was at home, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing or couldn't completely grasp ahold of reality. Shane and Rick could find common ground, but that didn't mean it was solid or stable. They didn't know each other very well, their relationship going as far as brothers in arms, but not siblings. Rick had only known him for a short year, ever since Rick's mother and Shane's father had tied the knot, and they had grabbed ahold of each other and gripped tight, hoping to keep grounded in one last attempt to make it through their childhood.

It wasn't fair to want to grow up that badly, to want to gain responsibilities, finish school, get a job, sustain himself and leave. Rick wanted out of that house more than he wanted any perfect family to go home to.

Rick knew he could have had it much worse, his parents could have blow off their jobs completely, he could have no roof, no bed, no food, but that didn't make anything more bearable. He would see the other kids at school, with their new clothes, and their new gadgets for their phones, and their cars and their loving, adoring lives and he would hate them. He knew he was jealous and he knew that because of that it was hard for him to sustain any relationship.

He knew that his trust couldn't come easily anymore.

It was Thursday. Rick was in his room, sitting on his bed, back flush against the wall. Shane was on his own bed, on his own side of the room and he was in the same pose, criss cross, and staring back. They could hear their parents screaming at each other downstairs, vile words that had no problem sneaking their way past the paper thin walls of their home and snaking around them intolerably.

Rick wasn't sure if he knew what the argument was about, and he was certain that his parents had long ago forgotten themselves. Like every fight, they were only fingering out each others flaws. As always, they grew more angry and violent with every passing insult and the tension in the house built up until it shook the walls and glasses fell and broke and things were thrown this way and that and someone cried out and then it got real quiet for awhile. It only took about an hour for the whole thing to start up again.

It was a terrible, never ending circle.

Their parents had been in the middle of an argument when Rick and Shane had gotten home from school, and the mood between them, a comfortable, casual, friendly air had been dropped and defiled by the hisses of hate spent from their parents when they walked in the door. They hadn't bothered grabbing a snack or taking off their shoes or dropping their backpacks. They went upstairs and avoided getting caught in the crossfire.

Rick and Shane hadn't moved since they first plopped down to rest on their beds. Dinner, homework and fun forgotten.

It was almost midnight but Rick couldn't sleep. He was a handful of years from eighteen and he was still such a child. On nights like that he would climb under his covers, turn on the flashlight he had kept in his nightstand for years and curled up to read his comic books.

Rick liked Batman most nights. He liked that will could trample over evil in those stories. The heroism and the selflessness that could be found in a man were shocking to Rick, and sometimes Rick thought that it would be nice to be like him, even though everyone would tell Rick he was too old to be thinking such things. Occasionally, Rick rooted for the Joker or Bane. Only when he had had a terrible day and life was particularly cruel to him. He told himself it was just because the characters were cool but he knew he just wanted evil to conquer, for all the pain to be done and over with.

It was such a simple concept, so Rick didn't put much thought into it.

Rick could hear the clock in his room ticking in between the quiet fluttering of flipping pages. He let his eyes slip closed, ignoring the panel after panel of dull colored crime fighting in the pages spread out in front of him so he could listen. The seconds were soft and only when he held his breath did it stand out.

When Rick felt himself zoning out he liked to count with it. His record was twenty-seven minutes and thirty-four seconds before he would loose track or fall asleep. When he remembered he marked his high score for the night on the side of his nightstand with a Sharpie.

He was counting again, meditating with the tick, tick, tick of time. He forgot about the world with the four, five, six and the constant change and the patterns and he was only a quarter of the way into his fifth minute when his step-father kicked the door open. He was loud and Rick could already smell the whiskey he was panting. Rick could hear Shane startle out of his daze and his breathing catch and stop in his throat. Rick barely had the courage to pull the blankets off his head and turn onto his back to face it all.

He was careful to hide his flashlight and his comics.

"I need one'a you boys to go out to the shed and get the heater." the oaf tripped over nothing and slammed his palm into the wall to catch himself. The sound echoed around the room like a judge's gavel. And for a second Rick felt like he was being sentenced to death.

Shane pretended to be asleep.

"C'mon, boy!" Rick's step-father grunted. It had been a very lone time since the man had said Rick's name. He was just boy, runt, kid. "Get on up!"

Rick couldn't argue that it wasn't his responsibility, that he was already, technically, in bed, that it took a lot of courage to go out to the shed that late. He couldn't admit that he was scared of the forest at night because he knew what came with that.

Rick slipped on his shoes without protest, he didn't bother with socks. He pulled his jacket on over his pajama top and he tucked the hem of his sweats into his sneakers to keep them from getting wet in the remnants of the storm the night before. He waited for his step-father to leave before scooping up his big, gray flashlight from under his covers.

There was no path through the forest to the shed. Rick had to hike his way past rocks and large, overgrown shrubbery twice his size. The boulders hid and waited to trip him and the vines threatened to ensnare him into a helpless heap, a spider's web of greenery. An army of trees kept Rick from seeing past the opening his house lay in, leaving a wonder of unpredictable possibilities lurking just behind enemy lines.

Rick's house was rundown and tired, but the land that it lived on was beautiful and vast and filled with the life Rick had been drained of. It had been a farm many generations ago. It was isolated like on might be and it still had a few small, old buildings that looked like they might have once housed horses and pigs. Old chicken wire lined out squares over by the lake the dried up during summer, the clippings of horse hooves were still sometimes snagged up and treasured by the eager mutts that roamed too far from Rick's neighbor, clumps of molded duck feathers still pooled against cattails by the ponds.

Rick's step-father had turned one of the old barns into their shed.

The shed stood alone in pasture of tall grass. During the day, when the sky was clear everything looked endless. During nights like these the stars were so clear Rick was sure he could reach out and touch them if he tried hard enough. It all seemed so obtainable that Rick would always wonder why he didn't spend more time out there when he could. The light of the moon bounced off the grey-green grass and made it glow. When Rick was walked though it he dropped his hands to his side and felt the strands brush timidly against his fingertips and he pretended he was in the ocean.

Rick had to maneuver himself through a maze of the past layouts of centuries of sheds and barns that had burned down. The last charred ramains still stood like dark reminders of past faults of all shapes and sizes. It was easy to weave his way to the door and when he did he felt its ancient wood when he pushed it open. It was soft and worn down by time and maybe just a little bit of rot.

The heater was in the furthest corner of the shed, buried by ratty boxes and insects. It was a bit heavy and it took both of his hands and all of his strength to lift it, but Rick was able to yank it out of the tangle of worn cords and gardening tools. He set it at the doorway to take a breather, to be certain the door was closing behind him, and he wasn't sure of what he was seeing when he saw it.

It was smoke. A small line of it, like a trail in the sky, running its way up to heaven, and it started in Rick's forest, maybe a quarter mile away. A camp fire was the only explanation. The smoke didn't look out of control and it wasn't far enough away to be the city. Only, what didn't really click with Rick is why. Rick's step-father was very picky about who was on their property. He inherited it from his parents and he followed their one rule, and it was the same rule that had been engraved into Rick's mind on arrival.

No strangers.

Rick's step-dad had a thing about telling everyone when someone was going to be hunting or fishing or camping nearby and no one was scheduled this week, not this weekend either, not that Rick had heard.

It was worry that got Rick to head towards the fire, the knowledge that his step-father had an itchy trigger finger and a shotgun to match, but it was curiosity that kept him on track. Rick left the heater behind carelessly. He didn't think much about it, or the consequences, but he didn't mind for just a minute, he wasn't scared for just a minute.

Creeping through the forest was harder than it seemed in the movies. Branches would break under toe, leaves would crunch, snail shells would crack, birds and bats would take flight in fear. Rick was aiming for silent and came off more as a train wreck. His flashlight kept an abundance of the anxiety away, though. He didn't seem so lost with his beam of light and his hardened, although rather fuzzy, knowledge of those woods.

He came up on the camp site within the half hour and he stopped, crouching next to the heavy twines of tree roots as best he could. He peered over and watched the fire crackle, let his eyes roam over the area swiftly. It was all surprisingly dark for all the light the fire offered. It was out of the moon's domain, hidden under a tall canopy of trees and a bed of leaves. The shadows of plant life blotched over the empty ground and the single soul that lingered, hunched over the fire.

The only source of light came from the pit, but it was a professional blaze, well fed and bright. It seemed to be the only source of warmth to the cold man, as well, and the curled up figure was shaking and shivering despite. Through the darkness Rick could make out how the stranger was bent awkwardly, crouching more into his left side than his right, arms entangled to hold what little body heat he could muster in. He looked ready to move at a moment's notice, the way he squatted like a predator or uneasy prey.

Rick kept at a distance, he didn't know if he could trust the stranger. He could only see the man's back, and could only tell he was male by the sharp, tough turns of his shoulders and the slouch of his back under his matted, heavy hoodie.

Rick could smell the fire from where he was, twenty or so feet away. He could hear it, too, and the clambering of cold teeth and shaky breath that puffed up from the man, dusting off to join the smoke pillar. Rick didn't mean to move forward, it was unintentional. A subconscious need to find a way to keep the man from suffering further. He just wanted to give the guy his jacket, maybe fetch him some more wood and kindling.

When Rick's foot slipped onto a fragile twig and shattered the silence the man was up immediately and Rick saw a boy. He was about the same age as Rick, maybe fifteen, but the ferocity of his snarl spoke of someone who had been through too much for his age.

He had a knife, but that was the last thing Rick really saw. First had been his eyes, and the darkness and the fear and the anger they held, and then the way the boy was broken and falling apart, the way he gripped at his hip and grunted and nearly buckled, just standing up. The way he was grasping an arm across his belly to hold something, a wound, with one hand and that was when Rick noticed the blade, shaky and helpless, in the other.

Rick couldn't get a word out before the boy was barking at him in a dreary, accented voice. The comprehensibility was lost behind exhaustion and shock and just a bit of a heavy southern quality. Rick didn't want to ask the boy to repeat himself, he didn't think of it, he moved forward. He was careful to keep his hands out and open like he was dealing with a wild animal. He was half expecting the kid to sniff his knuckles.

"I'm Rick." Rick went for a soothing tone but it came out as something almost condescending. "I live here."

"A' don' give a shit if ya grew these fuckin' trees all ba' yer'self with yer bare hands!" the boy's lips curled, but not in the way that Rick's mom's did when she was screaming. It was more similar to a dog's growl, flashing teeth like they themselves were his weapon of choice. "Leave me alone!"

Rick took a step back when he looked around and found he was too close and all the boy had to do was swipe his arm and he could cut Rick's throat to ribbons. When he retreated, showing fear, the boy did leap forward, jerking the knife downwards. He would have gotten an eye, or if he was lucky he would have plunged the blade straight into Rick's heart, but the boy stumbled and collapsed in on himself in a heap of wet coughs.

Rick dropped by the boy's side, trying to peel him out of his beetle position. He didn't care about the weapon, he wasn't even clever enough to knock it away while the other was defenseless. It took too much energy to lay the kid out flat and even when he did it was only because the boy wasn't been lucid for a bit.

Even with the fire's blaze burning only a meter away, Rick couldn't make out much of the boy's face. He could see the shapes, the deep, jolting lines of a sharp, hardened expression. He saw enough to know the boy's eyes were scrunched closed with a dazed pain.

The boy had still had a grip on the knife, even as the rest of his body was shutting down, giving up, flickering off. Rick didn't try to take it away while the kid was laying down. He understood what it would have meant for the boy to be defenseless and he didn't want the him feeling cornered. He let him have his knife and he hoped for the best.

Rick pressed the other's back down into the dirt, trying to keep him still. The boy growled and trashed in response, his energy spiking once more in a survivalist's last stand. Underneath all of the invoked fury, Rick could see the underlying terror spark in the fire light, he could hear it in the way the boy was screeching profanities and threats.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Rick aimed for comforting and figured he must have hit some other end of the spectrum by the way the other kid's efforts to flee doubled. "I think you're hurt! You need to stop moving so I can check!" Rick didn't know what gave him the right to force his helping hand on this stranger, but it was too late to back down.

It only took moments for the boy's panic to die away to the simmering embers of discomfort and disorder. Rick took the pause of peace to pull his hands away, to look down at the boy's still body. His chest was moving in wheezy, shallow breaths and one of his arms were wrangled around to cover his side, clinging to desperately will the pain away.

When it finally came time to inspect the boy's hip it was easy for Rick to pull the kid's hand away for a good view, finding it quite the contradiction to thirty seconds prior. It left him even further worried for the boy, dreading, for just a second, that he was longer living. The boy moved, though, arms curling from around his gut to lay over his eyes, his chest heaving terribly deep, terribly fast.

The wound wasn't obvious despite the severity. The boy's hoodie was black and zipped closed and when Rick got it open the shirt underneath didn't show any blood either. Rick had to lift it up, he had to be careful and slow when he found the material tugging on dried blood and flesh. He heard the boy grunt and bite his lip.

The wound was in all terms gaping. Rick couldn't tell if it was from a bullet or a knife but he knew he was in over his head. He took off his jacket, bunched it up and pressed it to the injury to stop the bleeding. It didn't help much and by the time Rick could get the boy's arms to hold it down the white cotton had already blossomed red.

"I have to go get a first aid kit!" Rick hoped he could find one in the shed. He didn't know how he would be able to explain his situation if he had to go all the way back home. He didn't imagine he could go home and make it out without having to answer to his step-father and his many unrelated questions.

Rick stood up, brushing the wet leaves and grime off his pajama bottoms, casting one more look down on the half-conscious boy before turning and bolting back the way he came. He didn't bother telling the boy not to go anywhere.

The first aid kit was hidden behind a big box of old photos from Rick's mother's first marriage, and from the ashes of years of dust Rick could see glimpses of his forgotten father, standing proud, young. Looking happy. Rick hadn't seen his mom looking so beautiful, so sober, since the day his dad died. Her rosy cheeks had hallowed, her eyes had drooped with age, her fingers had become crooked and bony, her hair had tangled in a matted mess. Rick's father lay six feet under, nothing more than bones in a coffin, and his mother might have well as just followed him down.

It took a bit of effort and a big, deep breath, but Rick tore his eyes off the box. His hands fumbled with the little, tan medical kit and he dropped it. Swearing under uneven breath, Rick scrambled to pick it up again. The tips of his fingers were red and wet. The boy's blood stained the material of the pack when he lifted it up again, like dye. He peeled his digits out of the stick and mush and glanced down at the kit to bare witness to the morbid image of his hand prints. He stopped thinking about it and snatched a water bottle and a loaf of white bread from their food storage on the way out.

Rick could see the outline of ribs when he knelt down and found the will to lift up the boy's shirt for another look at the injury. He could have run his fingers over the other's chest and felt every bone and Rick wasn't sure what made him feel so sick, the malnutrition the boy was easily displaying or the strong, musky smell of the blood and filth.

Rick was able to keep himself together by conjuring up images of all his television heroes and the strength that radiated off of them. He tried to keep in mind that somebody, for the first time in Rick's life, needed him. He wanted to be his own superhero.

Trying to physically shake the boy out of his stupor didn't coax any positive response, though. He didn't take too well to being disturbed, and instead of thanking Rick for all the trouble he went through, the kid swung his weapon in his last grungy attempt to make the chaos and the sick and the pain stop. Rick tensed, shielding his face with his shoulder when he registered what was happening. When he did feel contact it wasn't an awful sting of blade, but only dirty, desperate fingers clinging for purchase.

Rick grasped for the flashlight on the ground to his left and flickered the beam down on the face underneath him. In the shine he caught a glimpse of pinched eyes, a strong and youthful jaw, muddy, blood crusted fingernails, gritted teeth. A victim, out of the horror stories Shane would read to him some nights. The voice, hoarse and wild, that came out of the boy's scratchy throat was terribly fitting.

"Merle," The boy's word trailed off, leaving Rick unsure if he was asking for a 'Merle' or asking if that's who he was or if it was a question at all.

"Is Merle your dog or something?" Rick was surprised when he heard the boy laugh, even though it was sad and soft. He didn't get an answer.

There were no instructions in the health kit when Rick flipped through it, which he had been counting on. He couldn't know how to deal with a situation of this kind, his only medical experience was the episodes of ER he had seen a few months back, the only personal experience he had with kids his age would be the awkward small talk he had had at school. He didn't know where to start, he hadn't taken any classes on saving strangers in the middle of nowhere. He hadn't picked up any manuals on the subject recently. No magazine article covered this.

"Look, man," Rick was young. He should have been doing homework, playing video games, sexting. He shouldn't have to be outside at midnight, on a school night, trying to guess if he had to dig a bullet out of some strange kid in just as fucked as a situation as he, or if he should just stitch him up. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I need you to tell me how you got this wound."

The boy opened his eyes and Rick could tell they were heavy. There was the sound of the his mouth opening, a wet click of his tongue and a whimper and then a moan and then nothing. Rick reached up to grab onto the hand still gripping his arm and he entangled their fingers together like the boy was a coma patient and Rick was his family, waiting for him to wake up. The blood on their hands squished together and Rick didn't really care. He was pretty sure the boy didn't care either.

He pulled the hand to his chest and held it there to keep the cold at bay. "You need to wake up." Rick kept his voice cool, "If you go to sleep right now you're probably going to die. I don't know you but you seem like a strong person. I know you don't know me either, and I know I don't know what I'm doing, but if we work together I can save you. I promise."

The boy groaned almost like he could hear Rick and he lolled his head over to the side.

"You need to tell me if there's a bullet inside of you." Rick told the boy and when he got no response he shouted it, louder, more dramatically. "You need to tell me if there's a bullet inside of you!"

The boy's brows furrowed tiredly and he didn't open his eyes but he shook his head just a bit.

"You weren't shot?"

Another slow shake.

Rick almost collapsed with relief. He set the boy's hand down and when he fumbled clumsily through the first aid kit he almost felt like he could handle it. He knew he had to clean the wound to avoid infection, he had seen it on TV all the time, but the only thing he could find was a handful of alcohol wipes.

"This is gonna sting a bit." Rick muttered as warning, he had used this stuff for road rash before and it was a mother fucker, but it helped. He ripped open a layer of the packages with a twist of his wrist and smelled the contents for good measure before lifting up his soiled jacket. He took a moment to prepare himself, and waited to see if the kid would tense up too, but he didn't. Rick scrubbed stiffly around the boy's hip and the dirt that lined the wound and almost immediately the other grunted at the alien feeling and hissed low on his breath and before Rick could really do anything the kid was breathing heavy and gripping at his arm with bruising force.

Rick was able to dab the wound dry with his free hand and his pajama's sleeve but in the frenzy everything got messy and Rick dropped the swabs and the bandages. Rick couldn't pick it them immediately like his refluxes had wanted, the boy's grip too restraining. He stumbled over himself before he was able to get a grip. He picked up the used wipes and set them to the side before moving to calm the boy down. He was careful laying hands on the his chest; he wasn't sure if the kid had any other injuries or if he was sore of what was up, but he was gentle.

"Relax," Rick ordered and the boy thrashed, "Relax." The boy huffed violently and settled, almost like he was saying he was too tired to feel it anyway. Rick could work with that.

It was hard working the medical thread through the needle, especially with the boy's hand still set on Rick's bicep in warning, but he figured it out. He could feel the boy's loose skin tugging and jerking each time he pulled his needle through the wound but he couldn't numb the pain, he couldn't really help. The boy was handling it well, though. Rick wasn't even sure if the other was still awake. Rick finished up about the same time the fire a few feet away died down to embers. He was glad that his only source of light he could work with lasted for as long as he needed it to.

"I'm all done." Rick pushed everything he brought into the med kit a little dirtier and a little messier than it had come out. He popped open the bottle of water he brought and after a pause brought it to the boy's lips. There was a choke and a cough and then the hand that had gripped Rick, that had loosened up towards the end, jolted up to clasp around the plastic roughly. It splashed a bit, over the kid's face, but then he forced it back to his lips, sitting up, propping himself up on his other elbow, gulping it down greedily. It was gone in seconds.

Rick was a bit stunned, but he offered up the bread, "I brought some foo-" The sentence wasn't even out of his mouth, the wrapper was barely off the bread before the boy was wolfing that down too. Rick was worried the kid was going to choke but after a third of the loaf was gone the boy slowed down and dropped back to lay.

There were no stars to look up at under the canopy, but Rick moved to join the boy on the floor. It was still dark, too dark, and Rick could hear bugs and owls and another human breathing quietly next to him.

"Are you going to be all right?"

The boy turned his head, slowly, and Rick could hear his hood brushing against the grass and he shifted. His eyes weren't as clouded anymore, he seemed less confused. He was still really pale, and Rick could just barely see him. He was close though, and they were looking right at each other. Rick could feel the boy's breath puffing.

"Sting a bit ma ass." It was the first conscious thing the boy had said to Rick and Rick couldn't help but laugh with relief. The boy was watching him giggle, Rick could feel it, even though his eyes were closed with mirth. He had an intensity to him that Rick had never really felt before. It was not like the anger or the hatred that his parents expressed, or the confusion of his brother, but it was just there and he couldn't put a name to the emotion behind it.

"I'm glad you're still alive." Rick admitted, turning towards the other a bit and catching a glimpse of the embers bleeding away in the fire pit.

"Why?" The question was so honest and so unexpected that Rick didn't know how to answer. He babbled a bit and stumbled over his twisted tongue and he droned off. After a minute collected himself together Rick breathed out, "Why would you ask something like that." And he watched to see if any emotion would twist it's way onto the boy's face and none did.

"I'm just a strange kid," the boy croaked past his parched lips, "what would ya care if I died?"

Rick sat up and watched the boy with a calculating look, "Just because I don't know you doesn't mean I don't care about you. And just because you're strange doesn't mean you're aloud to die on my watch."

The boy didn't really react. He was tired. "Why did ya bother?"

Rick didn't want to tell the boy that he wanted to be Superman, swooping down to save Louise Lane. He didn't want to mention that the other kid was Louise Lane in his scenario. "I like helping."

The boy went quiet for awhile, and he tilted his head back up to watch the black abyss of the leaves and the trees. He only spoke up after Rick had counted over a hundred seconds. "How old are ya?"

"How old are you?"

"I asked first."

"I'm fifteen." Rick had been watching the other kid the whole time and even in the little amount of light he could still see the outline of the stranger. "You?"

"Sixteen." Rick was surprised he got an actual answer out of the boy. "In a few weeks."

"Really?" Rick asked, "When's your birthday?"

"The thirtieth."

"Right next to Halloween." Rick smiled, "How ironic."

"Why's tha' ironic?"

Rick shrugged, "I just would have pegged you for an October baby is all."

"Wha's that supposed ta mean?" the boy sounded a bit offended, but Rick wasn't worried about it.

"Just," Rick looked up at the sky, too. "It's nothing." There was a moment of silence, a moment between them that was all breathing and basking. "You're southern, aren't you?" The boy turned his head a bit, "I can hear your accent."

"I am." It was a heavy accent; hard to miss, easy to place. "I'm not from around here."

"I figured." Rick licked his lips and he thought about carding his fingers through his hair but he stopped himself when he lifted his hand and was hit with the smell of iron. "I'm from around here."

"I figured." the boy echoed.

There was another moment of peace between them and it was comfortable.

"Are you alright?"

The boy reached down, lifted up his shirt and brushed his fingers over the sloppy stitches. Rick could imagine the wound, rough and swollen as it tried to heal. He heard the boy swear under his breath and he knew it still hurt.

"I'll live." he murmured as if he wasn't too sure, "I've had worse."

That got Rick's attention, because he wasn't sure who could have worse than bleeding to death alone in the middle of the woods other than Bruce Willis and Sylvester Stallone. "What happened to you?"

"Uh," the boy rolled his shoulders against the ground and set his hands on his belly lazily, "I fell."

"That's a lie." Rick barked, crossing his legs quickly and turning to face the kid completely.

"It is not!" The boy defended angrily, sitting up himself and wincing, "I fell on a fence!"

"Why were you falling on fences?" Rick asked in his same disbelieving tone.

"I was tryin' ta run from somebody an' I tried ta jump a fence an' a dog grabbed my leg an' tried ta pull me down and I fuckin' fell on it!"

"Who were you running from?" Rick huffed hotly.

The boy didn't really think before he answered, he was desperate to get somebody to take him seriously for once, "The police!" And it got real quiet.

"What kind of dog was it?" Rick asked softly, because demanding things out of a boy too stressed and too injured to cope wasn't all that funny anymore. It was a useless question. It could have been a Pomeranian for all it mattered and the damage would still have been done.

The boy breathed hard under his breath like he was laughing again. He knew the question was ridiculous, too. "I think it was a German Shepard."

"Oh,"

"But it's not like I stopped ta check." the boy laid stiffly again, still sore, and Rick could see the hidden grimaces of pain.

Rick smiled a bit and it was lopsided but it was genuine. He didn't choose to lay down again and instead fixed to sit up for awhile. He dug his elbows into his thighs and plopped his head down in his hands. "So, who's Merle?"

"Merle?" The boy's voice was truly curious for a second and Rick thought it was the first good emotion that the boy had expressed in front of him.

"You said that when I was trying to help you."

"Merle's ma brother. 'musta thought you was him." the boy shrugged it off like it had happened before, and there was a bit of worry simmering deep in his eyes but he was too exhausted to express it. "You seen him around here?"

"No." the kid deflated a little, "Where you guys running away together?"

"We split up when the cops were picking up on our trail."

Rick nodded, "Do you think he got away?"

"Yeah." the boy sounded so sure but so uncertain and listening to his tone was confusing, "He's tha strongest person I know. He's always got some weasely way'a gettin' out'a shit."

"Is he older?"

"Yeah." the boy nodded, "He's twenty-three."

"I have a brother, too." Rick told him, "A step-brother. We're the same age."

"Yer parents got remarried?" Rick shook his head yes and the boy turned to look at him just in time to see it, "When?"

"About a year ago."

"Are you two close?"

"Relatively."

"You should keep close ta yer kin." the boy informed him, "They're all ya got in the world."

"Where do you think your brother is now?"

"Prolly at our house, thinkin' I've been arrested."

Rick didn't want to ask what the kid had to do to get the police so eager to catch him. He was sure that would make the boy pull away and he was sure the answer would unsettle him. The last thing he wanted was to be uncomfortable in a place he had found peace. "Are your parents gonna be worried?"

The boy barked out a strange, dark bubble of laughter and he sunk in on himself, "Ma parents aren't around."

"Oh," Rick wasn't sure if he should comfort the other kid, "I know what that's like." The boy looked over at Rick for a reason to believe him but he didn't ask about it. Rick told him anyway. "My mom got into drugs after my dad died and she hasn't looked back since. My step-dad is an alcoholic and he finds the whole situation hilarious. Me and my brother can't really do anything about it. We sit back and watch our parents loose themselves."

The boy wasn't like all the other kids Rick talked to. He wasn't like his school's councilor or his teachers. He didn't ask stupid questions like 'and how does that make you feel' or 'have you tried talking to them about it'. The boy was silent for awhile, taking it in and accepting it. He only opened his mouth once on the subject that night, to say "I get it."

Rick smiled a little bit because he had never known anyone to be able to just accept it like that. He didn't offer to fix the unfixable, or to take him away or to help him man up, he just nodded and he told him he understood. Rick was not really sure how he should respond to that so he went quiet.

The boy got up after awhile to tend to the fire, throwing a couple of old, wet logs onto the embers and poking it around with swift fingers and a few sturdy sticks. It only took half a minute before the flames are licking happily, brightly again. The boy was still hunched over but Rick could see the determination glinting in his eyes, matching the reds and oranges of the reflection of fire. He was gripping his side and holding it tight, like he was holding himself together, and his face crunched up in pain when he moved too much or too quickly but Rick believed the boy was going to be alright.

"Are you going to be able to get home alright?" Rick asked when the boy sat back down beside him.

"After a good nights sleep, sure." The boy didn't bother zipping his hoodie back up now that he wasn't dying. He left it hanging open and his shirt up a little above the wound so the materiel didn't irritate the stitches. "I think I'm gonna crash here if ya don't mind."

"Why would I mind?"

"It's yer property."

"My step-dad would mind, but only if he caught you." Rick made sure the boy took that for the friendly warning that it was meant to be.

"I'll keep tha' in mind."

They ate more of the bread that was still sitting behind the first aid kit and it was a slow process and it was bland and Rick sort of wished he had brought peanut butter, but he was grateful that the other kid is willing to stick around a while longer.

The boy didn't know anything about comics. It was a shame, but Rick was able to spend the rest of the night telling him everything he needed to know. Rick was angry that he found himself dozing in the middle of sentences, falling asleep, mumbling nonsense. The kid didn't seem to mind, not when Rick stopped making sense altogether, not when Rick couldn't seem to keep his eyes open or his head up and he drifted to sleep beside him, laying down, side by side.

It was disappointing to wake up alone the next morning, the smoke from the fire snuffing itself out, the smell of camping and nature and nothing more surrounding him. He was a bit saddened that there were no signs of where the boy went, or what he was doing there in the first place. There was no note, there was nothing to track, there was no name.

Rick didn't care that he was missing school, he sat out there and waited until it was night again to make sure the boy wasn't coming back. Rick waited, counting the seconds, and beating his record a thousand times over and still, the stranger did not return.

Rick didn't see the boy for awhile after that.

XxxX

**A/N-** I'm attempting to mold the characters you're reading right now into the characters you see in the show as the chapters progress. At least, prior to season 3... Oh, Rick and you're feeble sanity...

See you soon with the next chapter


	2. 10-25

**A/N-** Merle has both of his hands in this, if you were wondering.

Special thanks goes out to **MacDixon Love**, **frozenclover**, **Guest**, **Unfeigned**, **halfemptyflask**, **Gaius Octavius**, **velvetemr73**, **Black Blood**, **RejectedShyRebel18**, **TothyMcfangy**, **Idril Isil Gilgalad**, and **Demi**, your reviews are so heart warming, thank you so much!

XxxX

"You are as happy as you think you are, but not necessarily as miserable as you imagine."  
_Mason Cooley_

XxxX

**Second-Class Citizens- **

The Dixon brothers had been featured in the news many times over the years it took Rick to grow up. He would always hear about them under the bated breath of frightened gossipers, or on the lips of curious cops and interested criminals; he would hear it in the deep voices of newscasters, saying 'robbery' and 'hold up' and 'two armed men'. The name was a headliner on a regular basis, and still, Rick knew very little about them.

They were supposedly the modern day version of Robin Hood, but they bore fully automatic shotguns and wicked jeers. They stole from parked cars, they stole from gas stations, they stole from thrift stores, restaurants and malls and they collected their earnings only to give most of it away to the people in the ghetto and in the trailer parks, to the orphanage and the parents of sick children in hospitals and somehow they seemed to get everyone that needed them to be there. It was as if they knew where they would find pain and suffering, it was as if they had a radar.

These were only rumors, though. There was no proof that the Dixons would reap good with their misdeeds because no one would fess up to the Dixon's whereabouts, or the source of their strange new profits. The news had suggested it, the people had never denied it, and then gossip had spread like wildfire.

In their sick, twisted way the Dixons aimed to help those in need and in a sick and twisted way the town accepted them as folk heroes. Rick would always hear stories of sightings and reports from first hand witnesses and they would always be told with mystified tones and wide, excited eyes like they weren't talking about criminals, but superheroes. Like these vile, dangerous men hadn't just threatened to blow a cashier's head off, but saved them all. Like these brothers weren't breaking the law, but enforcing it and it was all wrong and backwards and waywards in Rick's eyes. He was confused.

Maybe it was because the Dixon brothers didn't have a face to match their deeds, maybe it was the mystery to masks and hoods and hidden features that drove the public insane with curiosity and a thirst for more. Maybe it was the disturbingly young age they had started out at. Rick wasn't sure. Rick tried not to think about it.

His criminal law class liked to think about it. They debated on it every day something new would flash onto emergency reports or bordered the top of newspapers. Rick would sit and listen as people his age would defend the Dixon brothers, defend a couple of degenerates because his classmates did not seem capable of comprehending how dangerous those two were. His teacher, Mr Horvath, seemed to understand; he would argue that it was only a matter of time before a trip up of a plan gone wrong would lead to the death of an innocent, it was only a matter of time before all of this cutesy thievery morphed into two convicts wanted for first degree murder.

People wouldn't accept that argument though. Like a riot of blind mice, the students of Rick school would retort with 'oh, they don't want to hurt anyone.' and 'they only want to do what's right for those who can't defend themselves.' and 'they probably don't even load their guns'. And they spoke as if they knew these men personally, as if they had known the Dixons their entire life and knew what they were capable of but they didn't. Rick knew they needed a wake up call and he knew they wouldn't get one until it was too late and they were looking at a couple of corpses and funerals and handcuffs and serious jail time.

Rick wouldn't accept that the Dixons were here to do good because that didn't make sense. And Rick had become a man of logic and evidence over the last couple of years of dealing with his mother and his father and his brother and the problems a court appointed psychiatrist should have on their plate, not a seventeen year old boy.

Thinking that way didn't make his problems disappear. Thinking that way only dragged him down emotionally and if Rick dreaded anything it was extra drama in his life. So he accepted it and he moved on.

Shane liked to talk about the topic too much for his likings, but if Rick had learned anything in the last three and a half years it had been not to blow Shane off, because if his brother wasn't a junkie for attention then Rick wouldn't know who was. Shane was a good kid -a good man- though. He had protected Rick, helped him, saved him, loved him like any brother would. He had proven to Rick that friendship could survive anything, he had proven to Rick that love could exist again and again until Rick had had it drilled into his mind. Shane had made Rick trust again, even if it was only him. But, Shane wanted to see what the Dixons were capable of. He wanted to see what would happen if he pressed the criminals into a corner, he wanted to discover how long it would take for them or the cops to screw up, he wanted to test and tease and puppet everyone to their breaking point and he would always be thrilled when he found someone willing to let him chew their ear off with ideas and hypothesis and schemes. And Rick was usually such a subject.

Everyone had an opinion on the Dixons in a small town like Rick's. And most people knew where everyone else stood. The teachers, the parents, the students, the police, the gangs, they all had different thoughts and hopes for the brothers.

Rick wanted them put away. He wanted them off the street because that was what justice was for, that would keep everyone from being hurt and that would keep anarchy from reigning the roads and keep these so called vigilantes from thinking they could just get away with what they were doing. They were criminals and they belonged with other criminals. In a tiny cell.

Mr Horvath had said that the infamous brothers needed the chance to explain their side of the story. Explain their life story, if that's what it took. He told the class that everything happened for a reason, that these boys had crept to the side of crime because of some other butterfly affect and no matter what everyone else thought about it it must have been valid in their eyes at some point. He said for boys that young there had to be a reason. He said there always was a reason.

The youngest was twelve when he and his nineteen year old brother first tag teamed a fast food joint just on the outskirts of town. They had escaped with seven hundred dollars cash and a dozen cheeseburgers. A few hours later several single mothers in the poor part of town had enough money to buy their children dinner and some argued it must have been a coincidence but Rick wasn't stupid, but he was realistic. He thought, 'maybe' the first time, and 'maybe' the next, and 'maybe the third and then 'definitely' kept crossing his mind after that. There were no such things as coincidence.

The brothers would always disappear without a trace, most believed into the forest and the mountains that bordered the town, some believed they lived somewhere in the poverty stricken neighborhood and lived double lives. It wasn't as if anyone knew their first names, or could even confirm their last names. There were no fingerprints, no tracks, no leads.

No one had ever reported seeing their faces or hearing their voice, but there were rumors going around of identifying tattoos and thick accents. They could have been Russian, Irish, English, Rick had no clue. He did know the difference between rumors and reality, though. He knew not to get too caught up in the ideas swimming around town.

In truth, Rick wanted nothing to do with them. That was, until he met them in person.

It had started because Mr Horvath had wanted his class to do a project on the Dixons for finals. He wanted them to write an essay, find something new on the case and put themselves in the Dixons' shoes. Where would they strike? What could have been going through their thoughts? What was their purpose, their pattern?

He had paired the class up in groups of threes, but there was an odd number of students and Rick's group ended up being him, Shane and a couple of under classmen. Smart Freshman Amy was a nice catch, Shane had pointed out, she would help with a lot of work and do it well if that brain of hers lived up to expectations. Though Glenn was a bit of a straggler, a little too awkward for Rick and his step-brother. They let him linger off to the side and tag in anytime he wanted to.

The four of them hadn't even had a chance to really talk about what there plan was, where they would start or what they would do. They had planned to meet up at a diner after school and talk it out. They had planned on a smooth night, an easy day, a quick meet, greet and split.

Rick and Shane got there together and Glenn was already waiting for them, sipping at a smoothie and texting. He beamed up at them happily when they took a seat on the side of the bench opposite him and Rick was a little bit taken aback at how the kid was smiling so cheerfully; he had never seen him so happy when he passed him in the halls at school. Shane seemed to catch the giddiness like a disease and he laughed and smirked back.

"What's up, Freshie?"

"I'm actually a sophomore." Glenn slid his phone shut and plopped it in between the salt and pepper shaker. "I'm only a year younger than you."

"Fascinating." Shane mocked as he set his head in his hands and gasped at Glenn, "Tell me more."

"You don't need to be an ass."

"Yeah, I do." Shane said, "My school supports students being themselves."

Glenn's eyes fluttered from Shane over to Rick as he searched for help. Rick only shrugged his shoulders and signaled the waitress over. The woman skipped her way to the table with a pad and a pencil and Rick and Shane both ordered a Coke.

"Amy said she was going to be here in five minutes, her sister's going to drop her off."

"How do you know?" Shane glared at Glenn almost playfully.

"I've been texting her. She gave me her number after we all became partners just in case there was an emergency."

"Why didn't she give me her number?" Shane almost looked hurt, but if he was he hid it well under his satire and his cockiness.

"Uh, she did."

Shane furrowed his brow and patted his pockets as if he would find an answer there, "Uh, when?"

"The same time she gave me hers. She wrote it down on a slip of paper and you took it?"

"When was this?"

"In criminal law today," Just as Shane grew more and more confused with each answer, Glenn become more and more lost with each question. "In fourth period."

Shane stopped moving as a deep, thoughtful look settled on his face. The table went silent for a good few minutes before Shane shrugged and said, "Nope, don't recall."

The waitress came and dropped off their drinks. Rick pulled his over, unsheathed his straw and gently placed the wrapper on Shane's head when he wasn't looking. He heard Glenn hold back laughter and Shane turned to look up at him fiercely, but he got nothing more than a shake of the head from the kid when he silently asked for an explanation. Shane looked over to Rick who pretended not to notice anything. Shane settled back down, satisfied that nothing happened.

"What do you think we should do for the project?" Glenn asked.

Shane shook his head, and Rick was pleased to see it didn't disturb the little paper, "We should wait for Amy, she's smart, she'll know what to do."

"Well, how do you know I'm not super smart and already have an idea?"

"Well, are you super smart?" Shane asked Glenn, who choked on his awkward silence. Shane pulled his most sarcastic 'duh' face. Rick turned from watching the two banter nonchalantly in time to see Amy and her older sister pull up in the parking lot through the window. They exchanged happy words as Amy slipped out with her backpack and a wave.

Smart Freshman Amy took the seat next to Glenn when she finally found her way in, smiling cheerfully. Rick moved to face her and waited patiently for someone to bring up a reason for him to add in an opinion or a comment. She glanced across the table at him and grinned as she pulled a binder out from her backpack and a pencil to match.

Rick could see the notes she must have taken, the lists, the meaningless numbers, the dates, the time stamps. He could see the names of weapons and guns, he could see different stores, restaurants and thrift shops, he saw a bird's eye view of the city and little red circles marking buildings and ATMs and gas stations. Rick recognized the connection between these things and the Dixon brothers.

"I've got a couple ideas on what we could do for the project if you guys want to jump right in it." She said pleasantly, waving off the waitress as she walked over to take her order.

"I'd prefer to get this over with."

"Yeah," Glenn appeared to be disheartened as he agreed with Shane. Rick only noticed because he happened to look over just as the kid's smile dropped to a look of wariness.

"Okay, what did you guys come up with?"

"Absolutely nothing." Shane challenged, "We were waiting for you."

After a dreadful pause, Amy gave a tense, "Thanks. I guess." She sifted through her backpack for a loose sheet of lined paper and smoothed out the few creases. "Lucky for you idiots I planned for this. I got a small list of ideas we can do."

Shane swirled the ice in his cup around in lazy circles with the tip of his straw. When he reached up to run a hand through his hair he unconsciously knocked the paper wrapper out from its tangle of locks. Rick watched it flutter down underneath the table and when his eyes lifted they met Glenn's and they laughed silently at that.

"We could write an essay on different witness reports, see if there are any strange habits that either of the Dixon brothers have. See if we can catch something the cops didn't?" Amy looked up at the three dull looks of boredom her partners were sporting and gently crossed the idea off the list.

"We could go around and ask the people around the town their opinions on the brothers?" Amy suggested, "Maybe make a graph?" Shane stuck out his tongue and held his thumb down in a boo. She crossed a line through the thought.

"We could make a documentary film, or film a scenario on 'what could happen if'?"

A chorus of 'no.' and 'too much work' followed.

"We could do an art project? Any of you guys good with a paint brush?" she scratched it off the list grumpily when the boys shrugged uselessly. "That's all I got."

"Face it, we're never going to get this done!" Glenn dropped his face into his hands.

"Oh shut up, infant, we've only just started." Shane scoffed, "I'm sure we can find something we can half ass and turn in for a C."

"A C!"

"Yeah, Barbie, it's a passing grade."

"Not in my eyes." Amy grumbled, "We're not going to half ass this."

"Then come up with something that doesn't suck and don't disappoint me."

All four of them sat in silence for several long minutes, the only sounds came from other tables in the far off corner and Shane's drumming fingers. Rick glanced around at the three other groups of kids from his high school, from the college down the road, at the cashier and his thousand mile stare and he waited for the spontaneous. It came with Amy gasping, eyes alight with dark ideas.

"Okay," Amy leaned forward like she was about to tell a secret and on instinct, everyone pitched forward, too. "I do have one more idea but it's kinda dangerous."

"Sweetheart," Shane snorted, "danger is my middle name."

"Actually, it's Edward." Shane elbowed his brother in the chest.

Amy hid a smirk as she brushed her fingers across her ruby red lips thoughtfully, "Okay, now, I was thinking, what if we interviewed the Dixon brothers?"

Rick didn't think he heard her right, but he didn't ask for clarification because Shane and Glenn are already jumping at her with questions and comments and concerns. Glenn immediately went on a rant on how dangerous it could be and Shane repeated, 'you mean like ask actors who would pretend to be Dixon? Like the fake version of two thieving psychopaths, right? Right?' Rick waited.

"If we could manage to find a pattern, or just hang around at places they might show up, or even scout places there have been rumors of them staying at maybe we could just get an anonymous interview!" Smart Freshman Amy didn't seem so smart anymore. She seemed more excited than anyone proposing to stalk criminal had the right to be. "Can you imagine how amazing that'd be!"

"Not to mention, the credits we would get," Glenn shrugged.

"Not to mention these guys try to kill people." Shane barked.

"They don't kill!" the amount of offense in Amy's tone was unreasonable. "They're nice guys. They are." She glared at Rick and Shane's matching looks of doubt. "They've never hurt anybody enough to get them hospitalized, and they've certainly never killed anybody!"

"Yeah, they're teddy bears, that's why they carry around guns. Guns. Like bullets and chambers and shooting. Guns."

"Hey, they're misunderstood. They're probably just a couple of poor kids from a piss poor family. They might've been abused, or starved, or had to deal with neglectful parents."

Rick could see that Shane almost said something, he could see it on the tip of his tongue like he was gagging. He could almost hear him say 'Rick and I grew up with all of that bullshit and we turned out alright. You don't see us on the news, robbing places, trying to be some hero.' but it remained to roll around in the back of Shane's mind -in Rick's too- another day.

Instead, Shane spit out, "And what makes you so sure you have them pegged?"

"Trust me." Amy seemed so sure of herself, "I know troubled people when I see them."

"Have you," Glenn started miserably, "ever actually seen them before?"

"I have." Amy announced proudly, puffing out her chest like a show bird, "One night about a year ago, while I was in my backyard filling up the bird feeder, I heard them talking on the other side of the fence."

"That could've been anybody."

"Let me finish, Shane. They were talking about a gig they did, a robbery, and they were keeping their voices low."

"Well, that settles that then. It must've been anyone other than the Dixons."

Amy shot Shane a glare, "And I put my head up to the fence so I could hear them better -at the time I didn't know who they were- and through the cracks in the wood I could see them. Their faces were covered, but I could still hear their accents. They said something about a job they'd planned that had gone wrong and then the older brother mentioned something about heading home for a beer and the younger one-"

"How could you tell which one was younger." The disinterest in Shane's tone was almost amusing. Rick would have laughed if it were any other situation.

"The taller one was older."

"Not all of the time. Often, the younger siblings will grow taller, or..." Glenn trailed off.

"Well, keep in mind, dumbass," Amy told Shane, "The older one was in his twenties, while the younger was what, fifteen? Sixteen? It was pretty easy to tell."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Well," Amy said again, "the younger one told his brother not to drink as much as the night before. He said he didn't want his brother turning into their father." She paused and waited for the drama of shock to unfold proudly, blinking in surprise when she received none. Rick, however, was not surprised. This whole story meant absolutely nothing. He could walk away taking nothing from it.

The Dixon brothers were clearly very complex. They couldn't be summed up by a story that was hardly a day in the life, and hardly reliable, either. Amy could have been lying, she could have seen or heard something that wasn't there to hear. It could have all been one big mix up.

"I think what Shane is trying to say is we don't know if we can really trust something one of those boys might have said a year ago to judge whether they could be lead to murder." Rick spoke slowly. "Whether accidental or intentional. Keep in mind, lugging a couple of guns around a town isn't exactly safe."

Shane eyed him and nodded, turning to stare cross across the table to evaluate Amy as she fished for her next compelling counter argument.

"I believe they're just lost souls looking for their calling."

"Then you're naive as fuck."

"Oh, go fuck yourself Shane."

"Well, what a big girl answer from such a child."

"Says that 'full grown man' drinking from a bendy straw."

"You guys," Glenn coughed, "We're drawing a lot of attention." Rick glanced around to meet the eyes of a dozen different people, all peeking over curiously or glaring accusingly. He apologized respectfully -silently- with a nod of his head.

"Look, even if we wanted to do this project we can't just decide to find the Dixon brothers and the go out and do it." Glenn reasoned, "So, why don't we just drop it."

"No, there's a way."

"If there is, you should have told the cops about it. That's the law."

Shane laughed, "Let's not forget that these guys have been on the run for freaking years and the cops have no leads. What makes you think we'll have any luck in finding these guys?"

Amy had a smile on her face that made Rick worry. "My sister knows people who know people that get how the underground world works. If we ask the right questions at the right time we can find anyone we want."

With a role of his eyes, Shane snorted, "Yeah, and even if any of that wasn't complete bullshit what's to stop these 'underground people' and let's not forget, the Dixon brothers themselves from killing us on the spot?"

Glenn nodded his approval at the question off to the side.

"I told you my sister had connections with like undercover cops and stuff.'' Amy got closer, more secretive, "I can get us through there with an all day pass."

"Sure." Shane said doubtfully.

"And what about the Dixons?" Glenn's voice was shaking just a bit. If Rick would have asked him about it he was sure the kid already would have had an excuse ready.

"Haven't you been paying attention? The Dixon's haven't ever killed anybody."

"As far as we know." Shane muttered.

"And all we want is an interview about their work, nothing personal. They would never hurt someone who was just looking for answers."

"As far as we know."

"We'd be the first people to ever ask for their side of the story." Amy said, "And wouldn't that be exactly what Mr Horvath is looking for?"

"As far as we know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Amy snapped.

"I mean, how do we know that these guys don't kill? How do we know they wont take these 'harmless' questions seriously? How do we know we're not the first people to do this and the others before us haven't just... disappeared."

"No disappearances under those circumstances have ever been reported."

"As far as we know." Shane met the dirty look Amy shot him head on. "I'm just saying we can't be stupid about this. The last thing we need is to get in a shit ton of trouble, or wind up buried deep in a ditch somewhere over something as shitty as school."

Amy sighed in defeat, "So, you're against it?"

"Fuck no, I'm just saying we can't screw this up!" Shane smirked, "If we don't end up in body bags, this is gonna be the most kick ass project that dumb fuck of a teacher has ever gotten!"

Amy just about giggled with glee and she swiveled her body to face Glenn at her side, "Are you in?" She met his anxious pause with a pair of big, blue puppy dog eyes and he folded.

"Yeah, sure. Just don't get me killed, please."

"And you, Rick?"

Rick wasn't even sure how Amy knew his name, they weren't friends, they were barely classmates. And yet, there he sat, contemplating risking his life for a stranger. For a silly school project. He liked the idea, he really did, and he had no problem putting his life on the line, but he wasn't about to let Amy risk her owns, or Glenn's and especially not Shane's.

"I don't know..." He began.

And as the doors were kicked in and the bell above the frame jingled roughly, Rick felt a sudden and completely justifiable flip of his stomach. Like butterflies of nervousness, but worse. The anxiety was set on by the look of absolute horror on Glenn and Amy's faces as they glanced up to look at the newcomers. Rick couldn't move, not when everything went dead quiet, not when Shane twisted to look behind him at the door and gasped softly, not when he heard a thick, accented voice and the cock of a gun.

The Dixon brothers were much more than they once were on the papers, in Rick and his group's suggestions and ideas. They were far more intimidating in person, with their big, broad shoulders and the dark, daunting shadows that towered over Rick's head. He could feel one behind him and his body shut down when he figured he shouldn't do anything about it.

"Get tha fuck on tha ground or yer dead!" the older was obvious. He was taller, he was more dominant, more violent. He waved his shotgun at the crowds and made demands with his rich whiskey breath and his hardened, gargling marbles voice. "Ya'll listen and do as we say with no incidents and you'll all walk out of here without injury!"

"Yew heard 'im, lay on yer bellies, hands on yer head." the younger brother was far more concise and controlled. He didn't need to raise his voice to be heard, just the tone to his words caught everyone's undivided attention. The gun helped too.

"Don't no one try an' be a hero, a'right? Cause if I start hearing sirens, ya'll gonna start hearing gun shots."

Pots clattered and clanged as the criminals willed the cooks and the manager out from their shelter in the kitchen, barking orders and threats as the four men crawled out from the swinging door one by one and nestled on the dirty tiled floor. They put their foreheads on the ground and tied their fingers through their hair, shuddering and flinching as one of the Dixon brothers neared to pat them down. Once the masked man cleared them he moved to check behind the other counters and to scour through the back once more before moving to clear out the register. With a sharp ring from the big, metal box, the older Dixon was able to pocket all the cash.

The younger brother stood only a foot or two away from the back of Rick's booth and over the shuffling and the groups of people at other tables getting out of their chairs and sinking down to their knees, Rick could hear the chime of metal clanking against metal, maybe on his belt or shoes or something in his pockets. Rick heard him shift and step over to his booth and he watched Amy's face darken with fear with each slow pace, and Glenn shrink back in the cushions further and further and Shane tense just a bit more.

At first, Rick thought the criminal had brushed his fingers over Rick's ear but what touched him was too hard, too cold. The gun's barrel sat against his neck.

"Git on tha floor."

There was an exhausting moment of terror where Rick thought the man was going to punctuate his order with a bullet. He swallowed when nothing was heard in the room but the sharp ring of silence and for just a second, he pondered on whether or not this could have been what death sounded.

Amy was the first to move as, instead of slipping to the floor like she was being told, she stood up. Both guns were trained on her in an instance. The oldest brother watched the scene for a moment, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, facial expression hidden by a mask and a hood. His stance was easy, cocky, and he held his gun like he was just waiting for an excuse to use it.

"We," Amy's throat was dry. She licked her lips, she swallowed, she tried again, "I... just..."

"Hit the floor." the younger brother raised his shotgun in a no-nonsense pose. He moved closer, just beside Rick, and waited.

"Hold up, broth," the grainy, casual voice in the back was the only thing that would have stopped the other Dixon in his tracks. Rick could hear the smirk in the older brother's tone. "Let's hear what tha little girl's got ta say."

"I'm not a little girl." Amy stood straight-back and rigid, "I'm a woman."

The older brother whistled low, "Well, color me impressed." The younger shifted a little, but kept the barrel of his gun straight.

Southern. The accents were southern.

The younger brother was wearing a pair of army issue black boots. His pant legs were tucked in behind the lip, the laces were tied double knot. Dried dirt and mud dusted over the grip, the teeth worn down by years and years of running, running, running. The hem of his jeans were ratty with age, with rough patches, with hard work, with hard play. Rick couldn't look up past his feet, not yet, not with the fear of meeting the eyes behind those thick rimmed Aviators.

"W-we," out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw Amy motion to him and the others at his table, "wanted to do an interview for school. Y-you have no idea how much trouble you've just saved us by coming here."

"What?"

The older brother's laugh was husky and dry and bone-chilling. Rick could feel each huff from the big man grip at his heart with snaky little fingers. He met Amy's eyes quickly, silently willing her to back off, to drop it, to run and hide and never look back but she didn't seem to get the message. Instead she came upon her resolve and strengthened it.

"Me.. I.. we wanted to interview you two for school." Amy's hand dropped, fingers brushing over the papers she had laid out over the table top. The younger moved a bit -maybe to glance at the papers- and the older's laughter rang down to a chuckle. "The Dixon brothers right? It'll be anonymous, we won't ask anything personal or share anything you're not comfortable with."

The older brother padded closer, bringing along his scent of cigarettes, booze and the earth. He smelled of living off the land, of days spent outside, of fireplaces, pine trees and wet dog. Rick drew his head to look up just as the burly man stopped at Amy's side. He tensed, ready to throw himself across the table to stop anything he might need to, ready to force his way past one Dixon to strangle another.

"Listen, sugartits, that's a mighty fine offer and all, but the last thing me an' ma brotha need is a couple of paparazzi freaks and their piney chink nosing their way into our lives."

"I'm Korean." Glenn immediately shushed his protests when faced with the threatening silence of a big, brutish redneck.

"We just have a few questions!" Amy jumped in, "We just want to get a good grade in the class, you know, impress the teacher, you know how that goes. Er... maybe you don't..."

The younger brother didn't bother casting more than a measly glance at the table before turning back to the other, more sensible, more responsive hostages. He pulled a big, empty garbage bag out from his jacket and whipped it open. He dropped it in front of the girl Rick recognized from his math class and gave her the shake down. "We don't want yer fuckin' credit cards or yer shitty business cards or yer drivers' license. We want whatever cash you've got on ya. We're not vain, we'll take bills, quarters, nickels, pennies, all tha loose change you have swimming in with tha lint in yer pockets. All tha big bills ya have stashed in the bottom of yer purse. We do not want yer purses, yer wallets, yer tote bags, yer backpacks, just toss the money and expensive, meaningless jewels in the bag."

He waited patiently as the girl's shaky hands worked to wring her rings off her fingers. Her bracelets, her necklace and her the money from her purse all followed them into the bag and the Dixon kicked it over to the next person.

"Despite common belief," the older brother started, "we ain't public domain. We ain't yer celebrities or yer politicians or yer Bonnie and Clyde couple. We're criminals, girly." He got close to Amy, breathing heavily through the rough material of the handkerchief covering his face. "And if yew git in our way, we'll kill ya."

"You haven't killed anybody yet, why would you start now?"

"A bitchy comment like tha's bound ta do it."

"And what makes ya so sure we haven't killed before?" the little brother piped in from across the room, "I don't 'member tellin' anyone one we haven't."

"No, I don't recall ma'self." The older Dixon narrowed his eyes behind his shades, "I think yew best stop assuming. And yew best stop talking while yer at it."

Rick wouldn't have needed to push away the older Dixon's guard dog of a little brother if he pounced in that moment. He could have tackled the man, wrestled his gun away, taken control of the situation. He felt himself coil up, his fingers notch and grip, he turned his body as far away from the table as the booth would let him without dipping him off all together. Shane's hand clenched at his shoulder before he could move, his lips breathed over the cup of his ear.

"I know what you're thinking, Rick." Shane whispered, "Don't even think about it."

Rick didn't respond physically, he stilled to keep the attention off him and said, "I can take him." lowly.

"No you can't, not with that other one prowling around in the back."

"You heard Amy say it herself, they've never killed anyone, why would they start now?"

"Because if you see some idiot jumping your partner in crime isn't it your first instinct to shoot first, ask questions later?"

Rick felt a retort bubble up to his mouth, but it slipped away and left him speechless. He cleared his throat quietly and narrowed his eyes at the criminal standing only a few feet away. He watched the man, waited for anything to happen to make what Shane said invalid, waiting for the brothers' flaws to come out in the open for Rick to extort.

"You, too, John Wayne." the older Dixon turned to point his shotgun at Rick and Shane, backing up enough that Amy wouldn't be in a blind spot. "And yer boyfriend to."

"I'm his brother, asshole." Shane spit sourly, flinching a bit as the thug raised the butt of his gun to him in retaliation for his snarky response. No harm came to him, it was only a bluff, but the Dixon was please with even the miniscule amount of fear that Shane had showed.

"You ought to be more polite to a man with a gun." Rick could tell the southerner was sporting a heavy smirk, "Only common sense."

Rick set himself down on his knees and pushed himself away from the booth to give Shane room to do the same. They kneeled beside each other, sharing a look and turning to glare up at the criminal holding them against their will as Amy and Glenn moved to lay beside them.

"Now, tha's more like it." the Dixon grumbled hoarsely, "You kids sit still so I won't have ta force ya still permanently."

Rick watched the other Dixon work his way across the arc of people, filing their precious jewelry into a garbage bag. He didn't take wary of their saddened faces, he didn't show pity to those loosing something expensive. He wore a face as emotionless as his mask as he tore these people away from the things that they loved.

Only, when the young came across a sad, little, old lady, wrinkled and stressed from decades of loving, hating, living, he stopped. She held back tears as she unhooked the clasp of a small golden necklace with trembling skin and bone hands. She pooled the chain in the cup of her hand and met the thief's eyes as best she could with the strength and determination life had rewarded her.

"This used to belong to my mother, and her mother before her." She croaked, "I was going to give this to my daughter. And she was going to give it to her daughter." That was all she said, but with those few words she conveyed how important the little trinket was to her.

"Keep it." Rick was dumbfounded to hear, "and your wedding rings, we don't want those." The woman, too, looked absolutely stunned. She cracked open her lips but she couldn't form a thank you worthy enough. She smiled instead, and the criminal just moved along.

"Such a softy ma little brother is." The older Dixon chuckled and glanced down at Rick, their eyes meeting. "Ever since he was a kid."

"He's delightful." Shane spat and earned a booted kick to the side.

"Haven't ya ever heard tha quote, 'If ya don't have anythin' nice ta say, don't say anythin' at all'?" The man shook his head. "Jesus, it's like people don't have any class anymore."

The brothers rendezvoused in the middle of the diner to whisper their schemes. The younger passed over the lumpy bag of stolen property and together, they peeked in and murmured of their success. Cramming the bag back at his little brother, the older motioned to the other side of the room, Rick's side of the room.

When the younger brother approached, Rick could actually feel the difference between the brother's personalities. Instead of feeling cornered, instead of the ominous pressure of the unpredictability of a beast, Rick felt nervous for a completely other reason. This man wasn't the animal his brother was, he thought, planned, he was coordinated. He knew what he was doing and he knew how to do it. He was lethal with his mind, not with his brute strength.

The garbage bag plopped down with a crinkle of the plastic and the clang of riches. The Dixons didn't have to say anything for Rick to know what to do. Rick sat up enough to reach in his back pocket and slip the twenty dollars out of his wallet, he wrestled it into the bag and shrank under the younger brother's scrutinizing stare. The bag was kicked over to Shane and Glenn only when the man was convinced that Rick wasn't hiding anything.

Shane and Glenn followed Rick's example, though Shane's inflamed ego gave the brothers more trouble. Rick had to elbow him in the side a couple times to remind him that the other guys did, in fact, still have loaded weapons. Shane was very reluctant to hand over his '22' necklace, not when it represented his football team, everything he had worked for to get out of their town. He clasped it tight in his palm until he was certain it had left a mark and then let it slip into the bottom of the bag.

Amy came last in the long list of victims. She didn't cooperate as fully, though. Instead, she spent far too long digging through her backpack, making excuses, stalling, stalling, stalling as she tried to make conversation with the boys.

"So, uh," Amy pawed at her school bag with murmurs of 'I know my wallets in here somewhere', "why did you guys get into the business of stealing?"

"S'none of yer business." The youngest Dixon told her.

"How many other places have you lived."

"Ya best hurry up."

"What are you using this money for?"

"Stop asking questions, or I swear ta God I'll put a bullet through yer skull." the older brother stepped up to his place as the more dominant and everyone in the room felt it like a wave. Amy slammed her teeth together and kept them closed, tugging her wallet from the mess of cords and science notes to pull out the eighty dollars she had in cash to add to the brother's lottery pile.

"You've all been real pleasant tonight-"

"Except fer you." the younger Dixon interrupted his brother, pointing out Amy.

"but, alas, our work here is done." One brother scooped up the bag of goodies while the other checked the place over one more time for anything they missed, and together they hit the door and walked out. They left everything awkward, silent and right as rain.

"Anyone else still up for that stupid project?" Amy murmured.

"Anyone else feel like they just pissed themselves?" Glenn whispered back.

"I've got to get my fucking shit back!" Shane growled under his breath, nodding at Amy and glancing quickly at his step-brother for conformation.

Rick eyed the door the boys had left from and swallowed, "Yeah, I'm in."

XxxX

**A/N-** Tumblr, new to me, is.. something else. Above confusing, it scars me for life every time I scroll down pages. I have collected myself a small library of gifs, I just don't know what I'm going to do with them now. This fascinates me...

Guys, introduce me to some new fandoms! Tell me your favorite pairing/show/movie, anything! I just have a few ideas for a story but I don't have the right characters to work with!


	3. 10-88

**A/N-** Hello~

Special thanks goes out to **Effigy**, **Downey** and **Guest**! Thank you so much for the reviews, it means a lot to me :]

XxxX

"You are terrifying and strange and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love."  
_Warsan Shire_

XxxX

**Second-Class Citizens- **

The woman who answered the door was gorgeous, but she wasn't Andrea and she wasn't Amy. She frowned at Rick and Shane, almost suspiciously, and kept the door at such an angle that Rick could see into the apartment but wouldn't able to force his way through if he wanted to. Her fingernails, smooth and kept, tapped against the frame of the door as if Rick and his brother were boring her.

"Hi, uh," Rick was surprised he had to break the silence himself, "we're here to work on a project with Amy and her older sister. Are they here? Is this the right place?" As if to double check, Rick glanced at the chicken scratch of an address Amy had written for him to confirm the number beside the door.

The woman didn't respond, instead she narrowed her eyes further and clutched the door tight. Rick was intimidated, Shane was cowed and shrinking down on himself slowly with each blink of the woman's eyelashes, each swing of her dread locks, each sway in her hips. She bit her lower lip, teeth sharp and flawless, and she waited silently.

"Who's at the door?" Rick heard another woman, smart and fine and clearly amused, walk up behind the door. The knob slipped out further, out of the other, scarier woman's hand and Amy's older sister poked her head over. "Oh, you must be Amy's classmates, I'm Andrea, this is Michonne."

Rick took the hand the blond offered and smiled as sincerely as he could, "Rick, this is Shane." Shane shook her hand next and he gave a big, dorky smirk that Rick had seen too many times.

Andrea tapped Michonne playfully on the hip and shifted her off to the side so she could talk to the guests. Michonne reluctantly backed off, not bothering to say a word as she disappeared into the other room with one quick warning glare at the boys. Rick heard Shane gulp and almost laughed.

"So, I heard you were up to something mighty dangerous with my baby sister," Andrea's tone was charming, "I hope it wasn't sex." She laughed long and hard at the flustered looks of confusion on Rick and Shane's faces.

"It's on the Dixon brothers," Rick cleared his throat, "She wanted to interview them."

"Is that some sort of innuendo?" Andrea teased, "Because you don't need to be all secretive with me. I'm like the cool sister."

"It's not a sex thing," Shane blurted, moving his shoulders to be smooth, "I'm into older girls." He propped himself against the door, half a foot from Andrea and winked. "Older woman."

"Well, Ms Johnson down the hall is going to be eight-four next week," Andrea winked back, "Does that tickle your fancy?"

"Andrea," Amy, finally, popped around the door with a taunting frown, "are you teasing teenage boys with your boobs again?"

"Not this time."

The sisters shared a knowing smile and Andrea passed the door off and walked to join Michonne in the kitchen. Rick got a good look at the way they were talking to each other, low and comfortable, when Amy let them in.

"Glenn's already in my room, you guys can head in there and hang out. I'm gonna get us something to drink." She pointed to the first door down a hallway of many doors and Rick and Shane maneuvered themselves through the apartment, bumbling awkwardly into the room. Glenn glanced up from a comic book to smile pleasantly at them. Rick sat first, down on the floor with his back against the hard frame of Amy's bed. Shane dropped onto her mattress and started toying with her stuffed dolls.

"Her rooms rather girly for someone who acts like such a tomboy." Shane commented as he glanced up at the ceiling fan, at the pink wall paper, at the bookshelf of Harry Potter books and make up. "You'd think she'd have grown out of all this fairy tail bullshit by now. I'll never understand women."

"And that's why you'll forever remain a virgin." Rick caught his brother's sneaker before he could land a kick.

"She has a stash of comic books and cool video games under her bed." Glenn murmured a bit defensively.

"So?"

"I just," he shrugged, "think that's really cool."

"I bet you think socks and sandals are cool."

Amy came in with four stacked cups and a two liter bottle of Pepsi under her arm. She passed these off to Glenn and took a seat on the carpet, letting her bare toes tangle between the polyester. Lazily holding out her hand, she took back the soda and the cups once comfortable.

"So, I've been talking to my sister about ideas on how we can keep an eye out for the Dixon brothers, and we've come up with a couple ideas I want to toss out." Amy poured soda in each cup and let the boys take one, leaving one for herself. She sipped at it thoughtfully before continuing, "So, at first we were thinking police radio-"

"Isn't it illegal for civilians to have one?" Glenn asked.

"Regardless, it would be deemed useless, seeing as the Dixon brothers don't trip any alarms and the cops aren't called until after they're gone."

Shane and Rick hummed in agreement. Glenn shifted awkwardly.

"Our next idea was to post us four at the four most likely stores that the brothers might hit next, but in all truth we might end up waiting for days. The Dixons aren't exactly predictable, and it's not as if we even know when they'll hit some place up again. It could be tomorrow, it could be next month. We don't have that kind of time."

Rick glanced down at the soda, bubbling and fizzing in the glass locked between his fingers. He pulled his lips thin and frowned at the idea of a long, lonely stakeout.

"Then we thought about doing something to drag the Dixons out of their hideout, something that would catch their attention. Like, if we would just carry around a lot of money and advertise it and see if they took the bait, but we weren't sure if they are smart enough to see past that."

"They're southern, I don't think that's a problem." Rick punched Shane in the gut for the comment and his brother spent the next minute gagging and gasping and glaring bitterly.

"So," Amy shook her head and ignored Shane, "that left one idea. There's a gang, the Vatos, that isn't really a gang, but a bunch of informants and cops and Andrea and Michonne are pretty close knit with them. They hear a lot of stuff and they have a lot of guys that just wander around town and see stuff that they report, and I'm sure if we asked them and mentioned my sister's name they'd be our eyes and ears."

"Like, they'd tell us if they have any news on the Dixons?"

Amy nodded to Shane's question, "Yeah, and if they find out where they're at, or if they're robbing some place they'll call us."

"Why wouldn't they just call the police?" Glenn asked, "Isn't that what they should do?"

"Not if we're looking for them, if we call in a favor they wont."

"Shouldn't they, though? Like, isn't that the law?"

"They aren't those kind of cops." Amy said, "They just get information and sell it to the cops, they don't just give it away."

"Except to us?"

"Except to my sister and Michonne."

Rick considered the consequences, but it wasn't as if this was illegal. The only thing he could think to worry about was meeting the Dixon brothers as an end game. These men weren't notorious for helping students get good grades, and they certainly didn't have a lot of information about them just swimming around. There had to be a reason for that. He needed to know if his or Shane's life would be in danger, if Glenn was risking his own life for a project he didn't seem to be anticipating and if Amy would end up getting them all killed.

"Do you have their number?" Amy held a slip of paper out to Rick and he took it. The seven digits sprawled seemed just like any other phone number.

"Are we really doing this?" Shane sat up straight and fixed his shirt.

"I don't know about this guys." Glenn itched the back of his neck and coughed.

"We'll be fine, my sister told me these guys are really chill about everything."

"Who's going to call them?" Shane glanced around, mostly at Amy.

Rick pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, "I'll do it. They can call me back on it if they get any news." Shane opened his mouth the protest, but Rick was already dialing. He waited, the phone rang, the room got tense, and some body answered.

XxxX

Daryl pushed open the door of Merle's truck with a subtle lunge from his shoulder. The door popped and clicked its way open and bounced against the rusty hinges with quiet, creaking chimes. The streets were wet from the light rain early in the day, the road painted with a shining new sheen of rich black and water. His boots made solid contact with concrete as he slipped out of the car, tucking a thick envelope of cash into his vest pocket with one hand as he hooked his fingers into the flaking blue paint of the truck's door and swung it shut with the other. He heard his brother do the same.

They both tucked their thumbs into their pockets, they met at the head of the truck and together they ascended up the rubble path to a dirty, old apartment complex. Daryl met the gazes of the usual curious neighbors and he narrowed his eyes warningly as he passed. He could tell by the tense shape to Merle's shoulders that his brother was matching his movements with ease.

Apartment 103 mingled on the bottom floor, tucked underneath a set of stairs, hidden between two other, rougher doors, damaged by years and years and years of weather and drunken key cuts and termites. The floor matt, soaked around a puddle of sick mud, splattered the word 'welcome' but the rundown state of the place screamed everything but.

"Remember, don' be swearing like'a sailor." Daryl ran a hand through his hair and his fingers caught within the unwashed grease and nests. He grimaced and willed himself not to be bothered by it.

"I'll remember." Merle smirked, "I'll refrain from acting like'a total dick fer as long as I can, lil' brotha', but no promises. Shit jus' slips out sometimes, yew know tha'."

Daryl shot him a look and knocked on the door and when Sophia answered he braced himself. Just as expected, just like every time, the little girl pounced on him with all of the terrible force a ten year old flash of pink and blonde could muster. She coiled her arms and legs around him and hugged tight like a monkey.

"Yew grew up, didn' ya." Daryl grunted under the sudden weight, "Yew got all big since I last saw ya."

"That was two weeks ago." Sophia huffed all offended. She dropped, little shoes clapping onto the ground, tiny, spaghetti arms propped up on her hips. She looked like her mother, all angry and blushing and embarrassed like that. Daryl's lips twitched and he rustled the kid's hair before pushing his way into the small home.

He heard Merle smirking and cooing cockily about gifts and Daryl's bad hair day behind him as he moved down the hallway into the kitchen and Carol greeted him pleasantly with warm hugs and happy kisses. Daryl, over the last few years of knowing the older woman, had learned not to flinch as she approached and embarrassed him lightly and placed her lips softly against his temple.

"You look dirty." She smiled with bright, happy teeth.

Daryl blinked, hesitating for a long while as he processed everything. He started with the way Carol was dressed; not in her usual happy, pretty, ready-to-go way, but in pajamas. She looked ragged and tired without her soft touches of make up, without the sleep she seemed to be lacking, with the dark, heavy bruise that painted long along her jaw line.

He couldn't stop the fury that bloomed within him and he found himself disgusted, both with the marking and himself when he couldn't unclench his fists and he couldn't force himself to breathe calmly again. "I'm gonna kill 'im."

"No!" Carol caught Daryl before he could waltz into the other room, where he knew Ed was sitting, drunkenly slurring at the television, reading his stupid fucking magazines, flipping through his paper like he'd done no wrong. Daryl wanted to beat the man senseless, leave him nothing more than a bloody mess begging for his life. He wanted to make that animal beg for forgiveness and Daryl wanted to be able to refuse it. He wanted Ed to suffer.

And yet Carol held him tight and secure in his place, looking just past the door to the flickering lights and the steady hum of the television.

"Please, please don't." Daryl could hear the regret in Carol's voice and suddenly, he couldn't feel anything but remorse. "I should have covered it up. I should have hid it. I should have covered it up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Daryl huffed loud and angry and he spat, "Yew don't ever apologize ta me." and he looked dead in Carol's eyes and he sounded so, so angry but he didn't mean to. And Carol understood that and she nodded and she gave a sad smile. Daryl repeated himself, "Yew don't ever apologize ta me." and he said it sincerely.

Merle walked in, he had waited until he had heard the commotion settle and he had distracted Sophia from it all and Daryl was very grateful. He glanced at his big brother as he swayed into the kitchen like he owned the place and he rummaged through the cupboards. The big oaf glanced over only when he had a grasp on an old can of beans and as he turned to ask about the age he saw the bruise and his trademark leer grew grim. He licked his lips with a dry tongue and he snarled silently.

"I can kill 'im if yew'd like it. I could keep it clean and quick." Merle didn't speak loud enough for Sophia to hear. "No one would ever know." This should have startled Carol, it should have sent her rushing to a phone, to the cops, to her husband, but she only smiled. She was used to it.

"Thanks you." She laughed softly, "but everything is fine."

_'Liar.' _Daryl wanted to accuse. _'Coward.'_ he wanted to call her. _'Poor, poor, innocent woman, it's not your fault.' _he wanted to inform her. He said nothing. Because he understood.

"What brings you to our home this late at night, anyway." Carol swept graceful into the kitchen and clinked three mugs out of the cabinet. She put the kettle on the stove. "Anything interesting happen? Any news on the dangerous lives of the infamous Dixon brothers?"

Merle laughed along with the happiness and the teasing air about Carol, "As a matter of fact, miss." He glanced to Daryl who fingered the fat, yellow envelope out of his pocket and placed it quietly out on the dinner table.

"What's this?" Carol knew what it was. The tone in her voice and the glance she threw towards the sound of her grunting husband said as much. She peeked between the brothers and she frowned thoughtfully.

"Enough ta get by fer the next week er two."

"Enough ta feed yew and Sophia fer tha next lil' bit if yew can keep Ed's hands off it." Merle added.

Carol glanced around for Sophia, who had wandered to sit in the living room beside her daddy on Merle's orders. Carol tentatively poked at the envelope as if it would try to bite her and she picked it up and weighed it between his long, feeble fingers. "It's heavy." she murmured and the brothers both shuffled and nodded.

"It's 'bout three hundred." Daryl told her softly. "That's all we could get yew, I'm sorry."

Carol hugged him again, tighter than usual and she held him there for longer and whispered, "It's plenty. It's plenty, thank you."

Daryl glanced over the woman's small, bony shoulder at Merle who was watching silently, casually, back against the table. He accepted a quick, easy hug from Carol when she came over and she rested her chin above his collar bone and when she pulled away she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. The kettle rang and Carol set to making tea as she sniffled and hid her emotions as fast as she could glue her walls together again. She filled the mugs, she plopped tea bags into the boiling water and she passed one off to each brother who cupped their drinks thankfully.

It had been a long time since Daryl had something warm to drink. It felt good running down his throat.

"You boys should take showers while you're here." Carol smiled as she wiped tear tracks from her sunken cheeks. "It's the least I can do."

"Do we really smell tha' bad?" Merle asked huskily and he laughed loudly at Carol's sheepish nod and when she glanced Daryl's way, Daryl saw his brother lift his arm and sniff at himself precariously. His head whipped away and his nose wrinkled sourly. Daryl almost laughed.

Carol sipped her tea and set it on the counter and she gather up the envelope like it was something valuable, something precious and fragile. "I'll get you boys some towels." And she grinned wide one more time, and she glanced for her husband one more time and she padded down the hall.

"Yew take tha first one, Darlynna," Merle told him, gesturing to the room Carol had disappeared into, "I'm gonna go sit an' have chat with tha big man Ed and see wha' him and his fat, little fingers have been up ta."

"Just don't be sayin' anythin' stupid in front'a Sophia." Daryl warned, "He's still her father." Merle gave him a wave that looked a bit like he was flipping him the bird and he walked towards the TV room. Daryl whispered after him, "And don' swear."

Carol returned and Daryl finished his tea quickly, trading his mug for a fluffy, white towel. She told him where the soap was, where he could find shaving cream and a razor if he needed it, she told him where to throw the towel after he was finished as if they didn't go through this every other time he came through her home.

He locked the bathroom door behind him, feeling uncomfortable and paranoid in a bathroom that wasn't his own. He took his minute to observe his surroundings. He took in the sink and the cleanliness of the girls' side and then the muck and the grime and the chaos of Ed's. He saw the capped toothpaste and the well arranged make-up Carol owned and the dirty grime of unwashed of Ed's morning kit. He saw Ed's toothbrush and figured Merle (if Daryl knew his older brother at all) would probably piss on it before his showers end.

The tub was clean and stocked with flower scented shampoos and soaps. He frowned and he stripped none the less, because smelling of lilacs was relatively better than the scent of dirt and grime and man.

When he got out again the mirror was fogged and the tiny room was suffocating him. He dried off quickly and he pulled on his jeans hastily and he wiped down the mirror with his softened palms and he stared blankly at his reflection.

His scars would throb this time of the year, when the cold was setting in and the trees were even cringing and dying and shrinking away. His bones would ache like he was getting old and every day he would have to get up and remind himself that he wasn't yet twenty.

He shaved because he hadn't for a few days and recently he had to do it more often. He used one of the disposable razors he found in a drawer and he drove swift, stiff lines over his cheeks and his jaw and the little mole above his lips and he frowned at the young man that appeared out of the dirty mess he was only minutes before. He discovered a pair of scissors in Ed's filthy kit and he tried not to think about what that man did with them as he took them to his hair.

He didn't try to style, he just wanted his hair shorter and he cut until it was convenient enough and he dropped his tools back where they belonged for Merle to piss on later. He scooped his mess into the trash can and washed what was left down the sink.

And the whole time, Daryl refused to look at his scars.

He unlocked the door and clicked it open once he was sure he would leave it as clean as he found it, and he pulled his arms through the sleeve of his shirt as he entered the kitchen. Carol had a proud, motherly look on her face when she saw him enter and she cooed and laughed and hugged him tight.

"You don't smell like a campfire anymore."

"Pity." Daryl coughed, "Now I smell like sugar and spice."

"And everything nice!" Sophia agreed with an evil, mocking smirk as she rounded through the kitchen and hopped from one of the table chairs onto Daryl's back. Daryl grunted and hefted her up to allow her to ensnare her long limbs around him like a snake.

Merle pattered past him and pat him on the head as he passed for a chance to get clean himself.

Carol gleamed with a happy smile that almost made the ugly bruise that blotched her pretty features disappear. Daryl watched her as Sophia slid and dropped off his back and he glanced back at her with a pair of curious eyes, but she had already run off again.

When Merle came from the fog and the mist of the showers he looked like a completely other person. He looked renewed. Daryl eyed him and sighed at the pride written all over his brothers clean shaven face. The bastard had been up to something. Daryl collected his things and bid Carol and Sophia a farewell before he could find out what it was and Merle was at his heels nodding his head appreciatively in Carol's direction as he made it outside, but Carol followed them out and closed shut the door behind her.

"You boys aren't going to stay for dinner?" She smiled, but she looked troubled.

"Nah, we have places ta be." Merle seemed to notice, too, as his smirk softened.

"Well, have a safe trip home." she whispered and the three of them waited in a hesitant silence before Merle finally nodded and moved to walk away. "Wait!" Carol called the brothers back before they moved more than a foot from the door. "I need... I need to talk to you boys about something."

It was less of the uncertainty and more of the fear in Carol's voice that caught Daryl's attention and he faced her easily and waited for her to spit out a confession. Merle stopped, too, and turned, maybe a foot behind his baby brother.

"It's Sophia." Carol was tearing up but she tried to wipe the emotions away again with her sleeve and her pride. "I'm so worried."

"What's wrong with 'er?" Daryl asked.

"She's been getting sick lately. Often." Carol held her arms around herself as if fighting off the cold, and sure the air was bitter, but not enough to explain Carol's shivers. "She keeps staying home from school and she's always ill and I took her to the doctors and he wants to do tests. He wants to run tests because he can't explain it."

Daryl knew where this was going. When he was young and he got sick his brother never had the money to help him. He stayed strong or he died and it was as simple as that.

"I can't afford it." Carol whimpered helplessly, "I can't afford another check-up, I can't afford the blood test or the CAT scan and I don't know what I'm going to do. Ed keeps telling me she's fine, he said it was just a flu that she'd get over in the next couple of days but it's not. It's not. I just know."

Daryl swallowed and he found his mouth too dry. He licked his lips and he cleared his throat and he tried, and he tried to think.

"I'm so sorry," Carol whispered, "I don't know what to do."

"We'll get you tha money." Merle told her, "We'll get yew as much as yew need."

Carol blinked like a beautiful deer and she stuttered until she was speechless. "I can't ask you to do that."

"Yew don' have ta."

"I can't just accept that..."

"Yew can and yew will." Merle ordered, "Fer Sophia." And Carol just couldn't respond, her mouth hanging open, jaw slack and eyes red rimmed.

"Schedule whatever yew need ta, we'll have tha money by Friday." Merle patted Daryl's shoulder, signaling their get away and they walked off and left Carol reeling.

"That was mighty sweet'a ya, Merle." Daryl spoke up when they finally sat back in the car. It still smelled of days of hard labor and they could really smell it now that they weren't washed in it themselves. "Quite a bit out'a character. Touching. But, it jus' leaves one problem."

"We need tha money." Merle agreed, bringing the engine of his truck to life with a twist of the key and a press to the pedal. "And a lot of it." Daryl carded a hand through his hair and this time his fingers didn't tangle within the dampness.

XxxX

Rick was walking with a couple of friends from the football team, weaving through town and the tiny shops that ran the area. Shane had run off hours ago talking big about seeing some pretty ladies strutting in big heels and he hadn't returned since. Rick assumed he had been chatting them up with his usual suave cockiness, or he had been killed by one of their boyfriends and left in an alley to rot, but Rick figured whatever his brother got himself into he probably deserved. He resigned to cursing Shane for leaving him trapped by the cheerleaders and the linebackers that only pretended to love each other.

He was feeling almost nauseous with all of the fake plastic he was swallowing down and gagging back up for show when he got the call.

And the Dixons weren't far away.

XxxX

The pawn shop on Alder Avenue was small, cheap and surprisingly clean. The owner was a small man with a big build and a bushy mustache. He had a family of four, he had children and a wife and a home right outside of town and a family owned house over in Michigan that he visited during the summer. He hummed old show tunes under his breath when he worked, he played with the short strands of his hair when he was bored and every night when he made his wife angry or he had to stay at work late he would kiss the picture he had of her in his wallet and apologize softly.

Seven years ago Daryl had sold his old hunting knife to this man so he could help Merle buy cold medicine and jerky. That was the only time he'd ever met the man, ever said a thing to him, but he still knew all of this about him because Merle told him, and Merle knew everything there was to know about anybody worth knowing. Daryl didn't know the man well, not at all, but he always felt bad when he held a gun up to someone's throat and barked and barked like an angry dog, telling and demanding.

When Daryl took the pawn shop keeper's wallet from his shaky, pleading fingers he saw the picture of the man's wife and he frowned. Daryl felt that whirling, angry sing of guilt in the pit of his stomach that he had every time he did a job with his brother, or pointed a gun at a good man, or threatened and stole. That didn't stop him from fishing out the seventy or eighty dollars in tens and ones and fives that were stashed behind the picture and stowing it away in his own pocket.

Merle was out in the main room keeping the other four new hostages quiet, punctuating each order with his gruesome laughter, with the swing of his gun, with another order. Daryl's older brother had told him to get the combination out of the little man and his sloppy, begging mouth and Daryl had, like any good brother, listened without objection. And that left Daryl in the back with the owner and the owner's life savings and a safe.

Daryl was good at threatening, he was good at torture and out lasting almost anybody on any level of pain, but he wasn't good with the innocent or the sorry, or the pleading. He didn't like the tears and the hair pulling frustration bleeding off the man in waves because the poor sap refused to be killed and he refused to give away the money he had spent his life earning.

"Please," the man kept crawling up to Daryl on his hands and knees like the defeated. He kept gripping at Daryl's hoodie and yanking and twisting with desperation, saying, "Please, it took me so long! This is all I have! This is all my children have! This is all my wife has!"

And Daryl had to butt him in the head with the bottom of his gun because the man kept getting too close and he kept holding him down with his thick arms and begging, begging begging.

"Please don't take my money," the man pleaded from the floor, a sick, snotty mess, "My family will starve!"

Daryl had been listening to this for far too long, and he had dealt with suffering for far too long to believe this man knew what it meant to starve and to loose everything. It angered Daryl that this man believed money could solve all of his problems and keep his family healthy and happy and it infuriated him further that it really would.

He wanted Merle to do this part, he wanted Merle to be the bad guy because he was good at it, he was better at it and he liked it. But, when Merle had told him to get the money from the safe Daryl hadn't put together that the safe would need a combination until after he had already moved to the back and had taken the little man to the floor with a shout and a cock of his shotgun.

Of course, Daryl had tried to shoot the safe. He'd figured the man would be a piece of shit about opening the damn thing (he had yet to meet someone who wasn't) so he ran through his other options first. The bullet, or rather the pellets, had ricocheted off the smooth surface leaving not even a scratch and they embedded in the tiled floor in between his boots. He'd tried a crowbar and it didn't budge, and he tried an old ax he found in the back but the head flew off and impaled the wall behind him when he swung it up and he tried shooting it again at a better angle. And then he tried asking the pawn shop owner.

"Don't take my money, I'm begging you!"

Daryl considered a doing a lot of things, things that would make the man spill his guts, things that Daryl himself had endured when he was younger, things that made him feel ill to remember, but he didn't go through with any of them. He pulled his lips thin and he shifted his weight back and forth.

He demanded, "Tell me the combination."

"No, please don't!"

"Tell me what it is." Daryl kept his voice calm to assert dominance, so he could still keep listening for any odd ruckus in the other room. "Or I'll kill you, and your family really will loose everything." The shop owner gulped and backed off instantly and Daryl was grateful. He continued, "You think the money you earn is all your family has to loose? Push me further and I'll prove you wrong."

The man sobbed, and he turned to the safe and he slowly dialed in each number, still speaking with nervous quivers, "I just... please... don't do this... it's all we have."

"Jus' shut yer mouth." Daryl took his finger off the trigger of his gun once the man's back was turned to him and he readjusted his sunglasses. It was hot in the pawn shop, the heater blasting long and loud in the back. It was too hot for hoodies, for masks and heavy lifting. It was too hot for a day this cold, too hot for this time of year.

He waited, and waited and he heard the safe click open.

In the other room, Merle was being Merle. He stood hunched over the few 'wrong place, wrong time' people, collecting their cash and the few little trinkets he knew he could get away with selling. He was cackling his usual nonsense, making quick quips and suggestions on what to do in case of an emergency and how to keep from getting shot when a couple of redneck firecrackers barged in looking for a quick fix and yet none of his hostages looked entertained. He frowned at that.

"Ya'll even listenin'?" Merle kicked at the shoes of a man on the floor, spread out like a snow angel on the gunman's orders. He glanced up and he glared with disgust and Merle was actually taken aback. "I'm talkin' some new age survival shit and yew ain' even hearin' me are ya?"

The cop, the one Merle had found peeping in the back, trying to contact back up, spoke up from his new designated place in the middle of the room, "No one wants to listen to trash."

"S'not very nice, pig." Merle clucked as he stepped over to the uniform, "Yew should keep yer two-faced mouth shut while yew can. Otherwise yew might find tha barrel of ma gun in their." The gun got close to the cop, pushing his cheek up and letting an ominous feeling settle. Merle only pulled away when he knew the indent of the barrel would be left behind.

"Got tha safe open." Daryl called from the other room, still out of sight in the back.

"How much yew see?" Merle stepped close to the door, not bothering to swing it open. He got distracted, taking his eyes of the hostages as he waited for his brother's response.

There was a moment, and then, "Dunno. A lot. Should be enough, maybe nine or ten grand."

"How much yew think the girl's check up will be?"

"Without insurance and with all the tests they'll do?" Daryl paused, doing math in his head, "Maybe a grand or two."

Merle whistled, impressed, enjoying the success, "We can give 'er 'nough to buy whatever medication her girl needs and we'll have plenty left over ta get a nice, big dinner!"

"What dinner costs eight thousand dollars?"

"One made out of solid gold, baby brotha!" Merle chuckled and he turned back to the few on the ground and was met with an unexpectedly harsh blow to the side of his head. He grunted and fell back, arms outstretched to catch himself. His gun was yanked from his possession. He didn't have time to think about it, not when he was busy seeing stars, blinking away the dizziness, contemplating over what bone he was certain he heard shatter.

"You have the right to remain silent, you bastard." the cop had taken Merle's distraction and moved on it, feeling like a big man as soon as he had the southerner cornered against tables.

Merle couldn't think about how the man had moved so quickly, so quietly, not with his head suddenly pounding with the upped race of his heart. He shook his head, he scrunched his eyes tight and closed, he tried blinking and squinting, but he was already being moved and shoved away from the clutter of old tools and used furniture to slam against the back wall. He felt the handcuffs before he heard them, and the clank and snap of metal and then he was stuck.

Merle blinked at the bright lights as his world shook around him. He wasn't sure what hit him, maybe a baseball bat or the side of a cheap DVD player, but it could have been anything in a shop full of knick knacks. He fumbled against the wall, desperately examining his surroundings, he felt the external water pipe embedded in the wall. He barely caught himself.

"Tha' fuck?" was the only dazed words he could get out before he found himself blinking at the wrong end of his gun.

"You sit still, you piece of trash," the cop sneered, "While I go kill your baby brother."

No names. Merle's first rule, he had drilled and drilled it into Daryl's head until that sponge of a mind of his had soaked it up. Merle's tongue caught as he tried to remember how to call out without being stupid and the cop was approaching Daryl's door fast. He reached out with both hand, ready to pounce, and found only one free. He ran with it.

The cop slammed into Merle's chest when he yanked him backwards as violently as he could, and he wrapped his thick arm tight around the fucker's throat before he could choke out anymore of his useless noise and he held him. The cop's hands flailed, his -Merle's- gun moving involuntarily, until it was turned and aimed and Merle shouted, "Brother! Trouble!"

Things crashed around in the back for a moment and Daryl jumped his way out quick, with his usual grace and his usual aggression. He snarled as he tried to rush to Merle's aid.

XxxX

It took Rick five minutes and eighteen seconds to get to the location at a full sprint and by the time he arrived panting at the doorstep he figured he was already too late. He regretted taking the time to call Amy and tell her what was happening, he regretted telling her to bring the group over to Alder Avenue because by the time they all would have gotten there the Dixons should have been gone.

Only, they weren't.

As he rounded the last corner and peered into the dark glass of the store he saw how calm and oblivious everyone outside was, he saw how the Dixons could go completely unnoticed, he saw one of the brothers fighting off an attack from a police officer, it looked like, and he saw how desperate the off situation had veered. Rick panicked.

He wasn't at all sure what he was planning on doing as he rushed into the little store, dodging old, wooden tables and big, cardboard boxes, but his body moved and he went with it. His instincts had never failed him before and he was proud to say he was only a little scared.

The brother, the older judging by his body mass, had his right hand handcuffed to a pipe in the wall and he didn't seem pleased. Like a tiger in a cage he paced and he huffed and snarled until things came into his reach and then he would pounce and Rick felt nothing short of pity for the cop who stumbled back into the southerner's grasp.

They flailed together and Rick moved when the barrel of the gun was aimed in his direction, even if it didn't go off, (Better safe than sorry) and he crouched down next to a couple of the Dixon's hostages. He ignored the odd, questioning stares thrown his way and stuck himself between a maze of metal tables. He frowned and shushed the hostages that whimpered and tried to whisper their pleas to Rick. He waited until all he heard was the squeak of his shoes and the heavy breathing and the clinks from the tussle and the handcuffs maybe ten feet away.

And the silence was broken with, "Brother! Trouble!"

Rick didn't expect the door to his right to swing open only seconds after, or for the gun locked between the cop and the older brother to go off, or for the little brother to appear with his own gun blazing, but it happened. Rick's head reeled and he acted.

Something crunched under Rick's fist when he punched the unsuspecting youngest Dixon in the face. He felt the skin of his knuckles rip against shards and he heard the distinct crack of glass and he didn't know what to think until he was already tearing the man to the ground and wrestling his limbs down. Rick tried to keep an eye on the police officer, to see that he was still unharmed, but the criminal underneath him became far too much trouble to only pay a bit of attention to and he was forced to look down.

He secured two flailing arms onto the floor, feeling the limbs flex with frustration. The man snarled and growled and Rick could now actually see the anger in his baby blue eyes. The glasses had broken off, the glass cracked and dusting in the Dixon's strangely familiar eye lashes and around his head with the metal and the plastic wires that had collapsed into bits and pieces under Rick's blow.

A set of horrifically proud eyes looked up at him, marred by the snarl and the fury behind them. Rick settled himself and his new captive still. A memory snapped into Rick's mind, one with a forest, and a column of smoke, a late night campfire, a wounded boy, a secret unshared, an animalistic growl and Rick frowned and he blinked and he tried ever so hard to concentrate on it.

The boy underneath him took his thoughtlessness and bucked the right side of his hip up into the air, dumping Rick onto his side, and he moved. He untangled himself from Rick's heavy limbs, pushing himself up in an explosion of slick, easy movements as he propelled himself to his big brother's aid. It wasn't hard for the two rednecks to over power the poor cop, smashing him up against the wall and crashing his skull into the surface until his protest stilled to a dazed sway.

The younger criminal dropped the cop like a rock, leaving him to ghost around his surroundings and collect himself. His brother peeled his shotgun out of the collapsing man's fingers and tucked his equipment under his arm. He used his hand, the only one that could reach far enough, to brush his baby brother's hood further down to shield the hostages from seeing the now exposed spots of his face.

They worked on the handcuffs together, clawing and pulling at the metal that only got tighter. Sharing a frown and a few quick, quiet words, the younger Dixon took his big brother's gun and tapped the barrel against the chain and the locket that held the two cuffs to each other and he fired.

Rick's ears screamed with a high pitched ring, and he watched, confused, at the sudden professionalism between the Dixons. They packed up their few things, they fished their prize money from the back, they swung through the shop like a couple of busy bees and collected anything and everything worth making a profit on.

Rick didn't move, refused to risk it with the brother's both eyeing him so warily, both glaring at him so viciously. The looks on their faces, (the younger far more clear, and maybe far more unsure) ones of distaste, distrust and an uneasiness.

The Dixons booked it.

The cop came to far too late to have any hopes of catching up to the criminals. He called up back-up far too late. He looked at Rick far too long and approached him far too slowly. He took Rick into custody without any grounds, mumbling about being an eye-witness and maybe a suspect. When he took Rick out to his cruiser in a new pair of not-trashed handcuffs (courtesy of another officer) Rick saw his group, his brother. They were peering at him through a crowd of other on lookers, matching looks of horror and curiosity shared between them. Rick could hear the questions glinting in their eyes, he could see the confusion and underneath it, the excitement.

Rick smiled at them cheerfully because he knew that was what they least expected. He saw them share looks and his grin grew.

Later, when the good cop and the bad cop tried to pry away information Rick didn't have Rick didn't answer, only shrugged. When they asked him why he had burst into the shop he lied. When they asked him what the younger Dixon looked like, if he got a good look, he lied.

He thought about the boy, the boy from the forests when Rick was young enough to be stupid, the one that almost changed Rick's perception on the world. The one that just needed to come back. The one that glared and hissed and refused to be innocent. The one that rolled so many questions through Rick's mind and answered only the bare minimum. The one without a name. The one Rick had thought about for years and years on end and then not at all. He was the youngest Dixon brother.

And Rick couldn't wipe his big, stupid, confused smile off his face for hours.

XxxX

Daryl watched the police cars and the pawn shop and the boy from the woods many years ago shrink away on the horizon line. He turned right in his seat once they disappeared and he watched the front of Merle's truck eat up the road and the lines underneath them quickly.

His eyes hurt but he kept them open because it hurt more to blink. His eyelids felt like sandpaper, his eyes felt hot and wet. He didn't dare wipe them. He didn't want to feel his blood stinging again. Maybe the sunglasses weren't such a good idea if they would make him so vulnerable when they were broken.

He glanced at his brother, somberly, and he waited for a worried moment before saying, "I think we might have a problem with that guy, Merle." And Merle didn't answer him.

XxxX

**A/N-** This slows down, later on...

I wrote the first three chapters of this before I posted the first, that's why these came out so fast... Don't expect the next one to be so soon, yeah?


End file.

Walking Dead, Crime, Romance